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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24500761">The Blinding Yellow</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse'>voleuse</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Justified</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:48:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>511</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24500761</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ava didn't realize that saving her life meant losing it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ava Crowder/Boyd Crowder</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Blinding Yellow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Set after the series finale.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <em>In the deep dark hills of eastern Kentucky</em><br/>
<em>That's the place where I trace my bloodline</em><br/>
<em>And it's there I read on a hillside gravestone</em><br/>
<em>"You'll never leave Harlan alive"</em>
  </p>
</div>It took a while for Ava to get used to the trees. The land sure was pretty, but there was too much field, too many airplanes drifting high up and past. She missed hearing the birdsong after a hard rain.<p>She missed grits. She missed real barbecue. She missed a glass of proper bourbon after a long day on her feet, though she didn't mind trading that for the little life growing in her. She stood on her porch--not a proper porch, but it'd do--and leaned her head back, breathing in the scents of horse, of dirt, of the breeze that rattled her windows in the middle in the night.</p><p>When folks asked her about the baby's father, she'd look away, say something about an accident, and if she managed to look down at just the right moment, usually nobody bothered to push her for all the details.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>Thing was, she really missed Boyd. Sometimes she hated herself for that, knew that the anxious fear of their last few weeks together was the reality of who they would have been together now. Or the echoing disappointment of when she finally admitted that Boyd wasn't looking to save her from prison after all. His love for her ended at the border of the story he was telling about himself.<p>She used to love that story.</p><p>In the middle of the night, she'd remember the way he'd slide his hands around her waist, the way he always smiled when she leaned into him. The way he'd hum Johnny Cash when he washed the dishes, the way he'd click his tongue the times he helped her put away groceries. The way he'd kiss the back of her neck while she was frying up breakfast. The way he made her believe that they could be and do whatever they wanted, that it was just barely out of their reach.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>As Zachariah got older, she'd usually read to him before bedtime, all the while watching him shift from wide-eyed to fast asleep, his sweet little hand on hers. He didn't care much for dragons, but loved the stories about treasure hunts. (What she never let herself say out loud: <em>Just like your daddy</em>.) Sometimes she'd leave the book on the nightstand and tell him about her own heroes, instead. About his granddaddy, the way his laugh would boom when she put her ear to his chest. His grandma, the way she smelled like perfume and pancakes. And about his namesake, Zachariah, who did everything he could to save her.<p>"If it weren't for Zachariah," Ava said, tapping her son's nose with the tip of her finger, "we wouldn't even be here." She watched his eyelids droop, heard his breath slow into tiny snores. "And someday," she continued on, "we're gonna go back. And that'll be the best story we'll ever be able to tell."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title adapted from "<a href="http://www.jeff-worley.com/jeff/samples/sample-a-little-luck/">What I Believe</a>" by Jeff Worley. Epigraph taken from "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cco-pCb0klU">You'll Never Leave Harlan Alive</a>," performed by Darrell Scott.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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